


paradise in your eyes

by blanchtt



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-28 11:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: They’ve always worked things out through body language—cons run with something as unremarkable as the tilt of a head, a touch of the ear, a subtle wink. And then that unspoken thing between them, too, Debbie touching her and her touching Debbie and no name for that, only knowing Debbie always comes back to her bed, no matter how late at night she does it.





	paradise in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> A challenge to fit every NSFW prompt I received into a coherent plot.

 

 

 

 

 

If there is one skill that eludes Deborah Ocean, Lou knows, ignores Debbie pacing nearby, it’s the ability to sit still. She had learned that little fact a long time ago, just like she had learned that Debbie takes her martinis dry, that Debbie is strictly into black lingerie, and that Debbie hates humidity with a passion.

 

(“There’s a liquor store on eighty-second.”

 

“Deborah.”

 

“It’s open twenty-four seven. No cameras.”

 

“Darling, _no_.”)

 

It’s two days post heist, Toussaint jewels sitting in their minifridge and the others gone back to their lives, asked to wait patiently for Daphne and Debbie to put the finishing touches on it all and then for Tammy to begin her work. It’ll be a long process. No one gets thirty-eight million dollars and some chump change without _someone_ noticing, and especially not with the jewels missing.

 

Debbie’s tense enough for the very living room itself to feel brittle, though, pregnant with something ready to snap and break that Lou can feel from the couch. It’s no good trying to read when Debbie’s pacing, Lou knows, especially with the sharp sounds of Debbie’s heels each step she takes making Lou cringe, imaging little crescent marks on the dark reclaimed wood that’ll be hell to replace.

 

“If you wear holes in my hardwood with your heels, you’re paying for someone to come fix it,” Lou says, looks up from her book, finger marking the last sentence she’s just read, and arches a brow to let Debbie know she’s mostly serious.

 

Debbie stops, hands on her hips, looks at her with a gaze dark and heavy from smoky eyeshadow. But her words are neutral—neither judgmental nor letting surprise show through.

 

“You’re not bored.”

 

Lou shrugs, looks down and away from Debbie dressed to the nines in her heels and slacks and blouse like she’s ready to do something and moves her finger back to the side of the page, keeps reading and wonders, vaguely, if Debbie even remembers what happened the last time she got bored.

 

They’ve pulled the Toussaint heist off and that’s due to Debbie’s genius, that and a little bit of luck and everyone worked together so well, so smoothly. But as much as she loves the thrill of it, a part of Lou knows the reward of thirty-eight million dollars, give or take, is worth more than the rush and risk of pulling off another con so soon and so high on the success of the first. Things go to shit when you get _bored_.

 

“Not one bit,” Lou says finally, turns the page of her book, but she’s not dead either, and adds, “Not yet.”

 

Debbie makes a small noise, and she’s looking just past Lou now, Lou can see, out the big windows she’s got that look out onto the street and alley and skyline of New York City.

 

It’s only two-days post heist, Lou wants to say, and they have had things to do to tie up loose ends, but now those are done and all they can do is wait, and she knows Debbie and hasn’t pushed because when Debbie is focused nothing gets in her way—and Lou wouldn’t have it any other way, not with all their freedom and so much money at stake.

                                                                                                                                  

But Debbie has her arms crossed now, a dark look on her face that Lou knows means she’s working through something that isn’t running as planned one hundred and ten percent yet, which could end in disaster because that means it’s not the right time and their work is _all_ about the timing.

 

“Debbie,” Lou says, dogears the page to keep her place and puts her book down besides herself.

 

They’ve always worked things out through body language—cons run with something as unremarkable as the tilt of a head, a touch of the ear, a subtle wink. And then that unspoken thing between them, too, Debbie touching her and her touching Debbie and no name for that, only knowing Debbie always comes back to her bed, no matter how late at night she does it.

 

Words are for lying, but maybe this time she can make an exception, and Lou sits up, feet on the floor now and not propped up. She sits back against the couch, a hand held out, like Debbie might run away if she stands or makes any other movement.

 

“You’re going to worry yourself sick,” Lou says, because she can _see_ it, can see that Ocean blood running through Debbie as persistent as the waves lapping against New York Harbor, always working away at some rough stone of an idea, trying to make it smooth.

 

Debbie comes to her like she can’t help it, heels on hardwood and walks over to that outstretched hand, takes it and lets Lou tug and then steadies herself, with careful movements straddles Lou’s lap, sinks onto it. Lou lets her free hand settle on the small of Debbie’s back as Debbie shifts and threads their fingers of their clasped hands together, shockingly pliant to the interruption.

 

“I can’t do anything else,” Debbie says quietly, a blink-and-you’ll-miss it admission.

 

She’s suspected as much over the years, since the moment she’s met her, really, but never been able to coax the words out of her. Maybe it’s a good thing. Lou lets her hand slip down lower, find purchase and pull, and Debbie moves with her and edges closer.

 

It’s a shitty band-aid to slap on long term, but it can’t all be rocket science.

 

“The only thing I want to do right now is to eat you out,” Lou admits, looking up Debbie because she’s so close she has to, and pauses to let that sink in, for Debbie to hear her and the corner of her mouth to twitch up in the beginning of an appreciative smile. And then Lou grins crooked because Debbie’s as susceptible to it as anyone else, and adds, almost a drawl as she squeezes Debbie’s ass, “Until you’re _begging_ me to stop.”

 

That—that little push at the Debbie she knows can relax and relax for real—does it. It seems to take only a flicker of thought, for everything they’ve kept at bay for the sake of the heist to come flooding quietly back, finally, and Debbie lets out a breath after a good long moment, lets go of her hand and slips her arms around Lou’s shoulders instead, close and comfortable.

 

“That does sound good right now.”

 

“Baby, you _know_ it’s going to be.”

 

From the sounds Debbie makes later, curled above her on the couch and riding her tongue, Lou thinks she succeeds pretty damn well.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

There’s a pleasant ache to most of her body, and she’s warm and comfortable under the covers and nothing about that should change, Lou thinks fuzzily, wants to say but is too half-asleep to. But Debbie stirs next to her, just the dip of the bed and the barest tug of the sheet, and despite being _exhausted_ she’s a light sleeper, always has been.

 

Debbie is a morning person, which never ceases to amaze her. She, however, has run a successful club for years now, and no part of that involves getting up before noon. As much as she appreciates the gesture, she does not want home-made coffee brought to her, nor does she want croissants from down the street to be placed on the kitchen table downstairs, or even delivery to their front door from some app Nine Ball had downloaded for them, or anything else involving Debbie leaving the bed, and so Lou turns onto her side with a groan, reaches out to find Debbie.

 

“Morning,” Debbie says as Lou’s arm settles over her waist, and Lou grunts, buries her face against her shoulder, once she’s brushed away Debbie’s hair. She presses up against her, hips flush to the side of Debbie’s and lets her hand slide up and settle on a tit, palming it.

 

_God, how she’s missed this._

 

“Go back to sleep,” Lou mumbles, request part need to sleep and a larger part need to touch Debbie. They’ve danced around each other for two months now, obvious enough for the others and anyone else with eyes to pick up on it, and they deserve this, the both of them, for getting this far.

 

The request works, but lasts all of what seems like two minutes. There’s sleep lapping back over the tenuous hold she’s got on consciousness, drowsy—but a warm hand slips against her stomach and pauses there, and Debbie twists in her caress and Lou’s head slips from her shoulder and Debbie is on her side and facing her, and there are lips at the curve of her jaw and hair tickling her nose.

 

“ _Lou_.”

 

It’s said warm and promising and then there’s Debbie mouthing against her neck, working a slow, soft hickey, and Lou gives in, tilts her head and buries her face between Debbie’s breasts instead, if she can’t have her shoulder.

 

“Fuck,” Lou mumbles, and can hardly fault Debbie for not being able to keep her hands to herself in any situation.

 

Last night, Lou thinks once again, arches subtle against Debbie’s hand as it slips down her stomach and between her thighs, was their first in five years, eleven months, and three days. Debbie’s had her countdown and she’s had hers, too—not just for this, but for tiny Deborah Ocean things like her quick wit and her long messy hair and her penchant for bringing her shit she can’t return, like a goddamn magpie.

 

“That feels… really good,” Lou mumbles, Debbie’s fingers brushing over her clit. She reaches up with her free hand, rests it just below Debbie’s breast, is close enough to her already to have only to part her lips and take a nipple into her mouth, sucking and teasing and hearing Debbie suck in a breath before asking around it, “What time is it?”

 

“Six?” Debbie replies, uncertain, which Lou knows is because she doesn’t keep an alarm clock on her nightstand—the sun wakes her up without fail in time for work—and their phones are probably downstairs.

 

“How in the world are you up,” Lou asks, and then Debbie is sliding down her body a bit and Lou cards fingers through her hair instead, feels Debbie kiss just above her heart. “Felt like we passed out around three.”

 

“Should I stop?”

 

Lou cracks an eye open finally and it’s still dark out behind the drapes but Debbie’s sucking a hickey against the curve of her breast and her hand is slipping lower between her thighs, and Lou tilts and nods an okay against the crown of Debbie’s head and then Debbie’s fingers are slipping into her, mouth open before they press _up_ to that spot that has Lou gasping and clutching at her and saying—

 

“Don’t stop.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

They fall into a routine, one she can’t help be a bit surprised that Debbie sticks to.

 

She manages her bar and Debbie gets into security consulting, the nightlife suiting Lou better than Debbie’s nine-to-five, meeting in the middle when they both fall into bed, and what they have starts to look like something bizarrely approaching domesticity. It’s never quite been her style, but with Debbie, Lou has learned, anything’s possible.

 

Money trickles in slowly from other places too, Tammy working diligently, and more often than note she’ll walk up the stairwell to their apartment, finds a heap of boxes in front of her door. She lets Debbie show her the things inside, sifts through it, agrees, because what’s the use of stealing millions of dollars if you’re not going to use it. She’s got her eye on a customizable package from Kawasaki plus an antique café racer from a private collector and had deliberated over one or the other until Debbie had reminder her that each of them has more than enough for both.

 

The easy routine takes them well into midsummer, and now and humid and hot as hell and it’s miserable with a cotton apron on over her work clothes, but she likes to cook and there’s no way she’s getting tomato sauce on crushed velvet, particularly on such a tight schedule.

 

There is the meeting with the girls and Nine Ball, who she’d invited to discuss professional social media options, then paperwork and finances, a drink or two, clean-up, and finally closing.

 

She puts the finishing touches on the boxed lunch she’s working on, adds the sausage ragu over the creamy polenta and pops the top securely into place, scrawls Monday on it with a marker and puts it in the fridge for Debbie, who Lou catches out of the corner of her eye slipping in through the front door and carrying yet another bag. It’s sleek and black and got no brand on it, like most of the fancy shit Debbie buys now.

 

“What’s in the bag.”

 

“Lingerie.”

 

Lou turns, wipes her hands on the lap of the apron, and then reaches behind herself to begin untying it. “Can I take a peek?” she asks, because that’s usually the sort of thing Debbie cannot wait to show her, and she lifts the apron over her head, reaches out and leaves it bundled up on the counter.

 

But Debbie only smiles, reaches up to brush her hair back behind her ear coyly and says, “Good things come to those who wait, Lou.”

 

 _Fine_.

 

Lou pulls one of the chairs out from its place tucked under the kitchen table, sits down and watches Debbie approach, set her bag down, and do the same. She’s got to leave soon and Debbie’s just got home, but it works for them and she settled with her elbows on the table, chin on her hands and asks, “How was work?”

 

“The usual. Punched in. Solved problems. Punched out.”

 

“Hard to believe,” Lou says with a grin, because they’ve never bullshitted each other, and she asks, “Any other plans?” pressing for details in a way that’s unbecoming but she can’t imagine Debbie not having one, can’t imagine Debbie not spending every moment of her free time or lunch thinking about some other heist or scam or plot to perfect.

 

Debbie hums and that’s not an answer but she’s slick, because Debbie sits up and leans across the table and distracts her with a kiss, long and deep, before getting up and reaching down and taking her bag upstairs.

 

She takes the moment alone to get ready for work, replies to Nine Ball’s text and confirming the time and address, and walking over to her front door, checking her reflection in a mirror nearby and fixing a strand of hair just so patting her jacket pocket, realizing she’s forgotten her keys, and she turns around and she’s glad she did because Debbie’s making her way down the stairs, hair down and in bare feet and a silky peach robe tied loose around her waist.

 

"I went lingerie shopping for you today,” Debbie says, and Lou knows she’s staring, staring every inch of the way as Debbie pads across the floor and sidles up to her, a hand on her chest and head tilted just so and her robe shifts as she presses up against her and the Toussaint have never made her mouth water like Debbie’s thin crystal bralette peeking out from under her robe has.

 

“Holy shit.”

 

“I want to eat you out,” Debbie says, and the hand on her chest slips and her fingers catch her tie, twisting it slowly between them, and how can she say no to a proposition like that?

 

“I have to be downstairs in about ten minutes,” Lou says, though she’s rapidly losing the ability to care about the meeting. They’re her employees, and there’s not much for them to do other than wait for her. Nine Ball, on the other hand—but Nine Ball is far from her thoughts because the robe is slipping from Debbie’s shoulders, off and to the floor around her as she sinks to her knees, and if that’s what Debbie wants Lou is more than happy to give it to her, and her fingers fumble on her own button and zipper in her haste.

 

“That’ll be more than enough time,” Debbie promises, looking up, and Debbie is going to kill her one day, Lou’s sure of it.

 

“I’ve always loved your confidence,” Lou admits—she lets it slip without meaning to, tries to think of something to say to smooth it over because it hangs heavy in the air and comes up with nothing, but Debbie kisses her tummy, nose low against her and fingers over the band of her panties before those are pulled down alongside with her pants to give her just enough room, and she’s got her shoulders braced against the wall and Debbie kissing her clit before taking it into her mouth and suckling, teasing, and when she comes Debbie’s slipping lower, licking and kissing and mouthing against her, “Look how _wet_ you are for me.”

 

She’s twenty minutes late to her own meeting she called and walks in on wobbly legs she hopes she passes off as a swagger that _might_ slip by the girls but that Lou knows doesn’t fool Nine Ball for one second.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

She’s sitting at the darkest booth in Veselka, nursing the tail end of a hangover alone because Debbie is at work, when someone sits down across from her.

 

“Holy shit. You’re such a lesbian. Can I say that?”

 

“Give me that back,” Lou says, reaches out for her phone but it’s a halfhearted attempt because there’s nothing on there she’s ashamed of, and Constance leans back in her seat, keeps the iPhone just out of her reach. She’s stopped being surprised by Constance’s ability to steal things off of them all without her realizing it, though her choice of clothing still manages to astound her.

 

(“Can I ask you something?”

 

“Shoot.”

 

“I’m aware of the irony, but I have to know. Why do you dress like that? You can afford a coat without rips. You’re a millionaire now.”

 

“Yo, _this_ is how millionaires dress now! You gotta get with the times, Lou.”)

 

“I need Amita’s new number. I need to set her up with this dude I know.” The sheer speed with which Constance scrolls through her phone makes her dizzy, and so Lou waves a hand, turns back to her breakfast, but Constance makes a noise, adds, “Sexts? Knew you guys were banging. You should really have a passcode on this, you know.”

 

“Who didn’t,” Lou asks, can’t help but laugh, and Constance snorts.

 

“Probably Rose. ‘Show me those beautiful tits of yours’? Damn, Lou. Oh, fuck—”

 

She catches Constance off-guard and that’s the only way she gets her phone back, because the facts are that Constance is younger and quicker than her.

 

She sits back in the booth, slips her phone in her pocket, and stares at Constance, who stares back at her. When it’s clear nothing’s going to happen, there’s a beat of silence before Constance speaks again, stone-faced.

 

“Ocean’s hot.”

 

“Never say that ever again.”

 

“For reals, if you’re ever looking for a third—”

 

Lou holds up a hand, closes her eyes, and she can deal with anything else Constance throws at her except that because she does _not_ share, not after everything, not after this fucking long, and, furthermore, she doesn’t have a clue how old Constance is but it’s certainly much too young to even be entertaining this conversation.

 

“Do not finish that sentence.”

 

“Okay. Can I have some of your eggs?”

 

She’s getting old and slow and Lou pushes the plate toward her, watches in amazement as Constance clears her plate and then uses a slice of bread from the complimentary basket to wipe up the last of the over-easy yolk.

 

“So about those lotto tickets you still have,” Constance says, serious now, and Lou feels a little swell of pride. She’s beyond rigging small gigs herself, but it’s about on Constance’s level and just asking shows initiative, and Lou nods.

 

“You can have those, too.”

 

Constance leaves eventually, throws down a twenty and takes Lou’s coffee in its to-go cup with a smile and a wave.

 

Alone again, Lou slips out her phone, holds it just under the table, and swipes it open. It’s one thing for Debbie to be locked up, and quite another for her to be here, in New York City, but trapped by something as ridiculous as a time-card and conventional office hours. It borders on criminal.

 

She lingers on the photo of Debbie she’d gotten earlier in response to her request, Debbie posed topless, long hair covering just enough to tease but leaving little to the imagination, a cool, confident hint of smile on her lips.

 

(She’d been eighteen and Debbie twenty-one and she’d fallen back on her bed, Debbie on top of her, and Debbie had dragged off her own top, a little scrap of something that left just enough mystery for Lou to know that the only thing she wanted out of the night was not a drink or a wallet or a stolen watch but to have her lips on Deborah Ocean’s body.

 

The silk top’s barely dropped to the floor before Lou sits up halfway, Debbie in her lap now, and slips a hand over her ribs, palms her breast with one hand and dips her head and takes the nipple of her other breast into her mouth, licking and sucking and getting a drawn out murmur of her name in return.

 

“Can I leave a mark?” she asks between caressing and licking and touching, because she’d be fooling herself to think their part in it all isn’t based on looks and because Debbie is squirming and arching against the thigh she’s got between Debbie’s, skirt pushed up around her waist, and she feels Debbie’s hand in her hair as her answer, urging her closer as Lou nuzzles against the side of her breast, aching to bite, to leave a bruise, for Debbie to slip her top back on when she leaves, eventually, and have all of New York City know that Debbie Ocean chose _Lou Miller_ to touch her.

 

Debbie comes with Lou’s fingers working in her and Lou’s tongue working flat against her nipple and it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, Lou thinks, wants to see it again and again if Debbie will let her, and it seems like Debbie will because she’s pliant and smiling as Lou turns them over, as Lou lets her hand find Debbie’s breast again and settles her hips between Debbie’s thighs and—)

 

She raises her hand as the waitress passes by, turns her phone over instinctually even as she jerks out of thought, though the screen’s probably already gone dark and asks, “Check, please.”

 

She pays cash because she abhors waiting, stands and walks toward the back.

 

She slips into the bathroom, checks the stalls, and stands in front of the wide fancy mirror and under shamelessly flattering lights, listens and hears no one coming and so pulls up her shirt, smiles, and snaps a pic, lets the fabric of her graphic shirt drop back into place and smooths it down before selecting the picture, choosing Debbie’s contact information, and hitting send.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

They are at some party of Daphne’s, because out of all of them it’s Daphne that Debbie keeps in touch the most with. When Debbie is not doing anything else she reads, and Lou knows for a fact that even though it’s low on Debbie’s list of hobbies that one of the movies that Daphne is producing has been a well-read book on their coffee table.

 

But after so many hours of introductions and hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne and inane chitchat with the cream of New York City’s crop, it’s their own circle of friends, because they can be called that now, that precipitate Debbie taking her hand, fingers laced through hers, and slipping away.

 

(“We’re going to Shanghai this time,” Amita says, boyfriend’s arm around her waist.

 

“We’re trying to get pregnant,” Tammy says, clasping Chase’s hand.

 

“This is Kristian. He’s an underwear model for Calvin Klein,” Daphne says, Kristian’s hand unsubtle on her ass.

 

Nine Ball and Constance and Rose are there too, everyone peppered throughout the crowd of strangers, but it’s Amita and Tammy and Daphne that do it.)

 

It’s easy enough to find a private bathroom in Daphne’s mansion, far away from the crowds, small but spacious as they close the door behind them and turn the lock, the whole covered in outlandish amounts of marble and mirror and dim, flattering lights.

 

“Finally,” Lou breathes, and Debbie tugs on her hand and Lou goes for the easiest, fastest thing there is, follows and ends up with Debbie’s back to the one part of the wall not adorned with anything, her hips against Debbie’s and a hand pressed to the wall just above her shoulder. “Is that terrible to say?”

 

“No. I’m so fucking wet for you,” Debbie admits, and Debbie’s arms are around her neck, holding her close, and Lou dips her head, lets her nose rest against the pulse of Debbie’s throat because despite her thigh between Debbie’s and her dress riding up and the quiet, beautiful bathroom, the tempo of it all slows, quick and quiet like a scale overbalancing, and Lou holds her, wonders, one day, what it’d be like to put Mazzy Star on her record player downstairs and slow dance.

 

They’ve always worked things out through body language—a kiss with a hint of teeth or sweetness, a hand on the small of a back, a look that says everything that needs to be said. But maybe words aren’t so bad, because Lou feels her heart squeeze and those three words are on her tongue again, fighting against the back of her teeth, but she bites it back—stupidly, for no reason, because when she’d let it slip before Debbie had only laughed beautifully, kissed her and asked _what else do you love about me_ and murmured her own list back to Lou in return.

 

“Fuck me,” Debbie says in the silence, but it lacks teeth, and Debbie’s hand slips up the nape of her neck, pulls her even closer as Debbie grinds against her once and tilts her head forward, against her shoulder, moving, and whispers, “Fuck me until I can’t think anymore.”

 

And so she fucks her, lovingly, Debbie pinned safe and sound against the wall and Lou working a mark against her bared shoulder that won’t be easy to hide, Debbie’s thigh hiked up along with her dress and held steady in the crook of her arm, careful, and she makes Debbie come with nothing more than her hands and fingers, draws three orgasms out of her before Debbie’s whispering to stop and they sit slumped on the floor, Debbie in her dress and Lou in her suit, laughing at the shaky twitch to Debbie’s legs and the way it takes her a minute to catch her breath.

 

Lou holds out a hand once they’re ready, helps Debbie to her feet and feels something in her go hot and tight as Debbie stops, tugs down the hem of her dress to something resembling a decent length and reaches up to push her hair back behind her ear before she stands and they unlock the door.

 

(The dress stops just short of the beautiful curve of her ass, almost, and Lou doesn’t care about any of Daphne’s little friends in the room, lithe twenty-somethings with stars in their eyes— _all I want is you_ , she tells Debbie, tells her that especially when Debbie frowns about a wrinkle or her breasts or takes off her heels after a long day and sighs because after thirty-something years it’s not so easy anymore.)

 

They’re on some balcony later, because of course Daphne Kluger would have a balcony overlooking some swanky part of some swanky neighborhood just outside of the city proper, Lou smoking in her shirtsleeves and Debbie next to her, her suit jacket draped over her shoulders and pressed against her in the biting fall air, Debbie drawing her free hand into her lap and playing with her fingers.

 

“I’ve got a diamond now, baby.”

 

It is sudden and forthright, but it is not cavalier. It’s not Debbie _I’ve-Got-A-Plan_ Ocean. It almost sounds scared, if Debbie were capable of such an emotion.

 

Lou manages to get her smoke out in a cool, practiced stream between her lips, but her heart thumps like a god damn teenager as she flicks the cigarette, as a few bits of ash fall off as she shivers herself. She heard right. Debbie Ocean is a woman of few words, and doesn’t make mistakes when she chooses to use them.

 

Debbie’s hand squeezes hers, and Lou thinks her keys and her phone and her wallet and Debbie’s too are all in her jacket pockets, and so Debbie has been carrying this thing around, probably, somewhere on her body and with a plan that’s running at one hundred percent. Debbie’s really more of a hundred and ten percent woman though, Lou knows, but there are some things you can’t plan for.

 

“Will you marry me, Louise Miller?”

 

They are late, set back five years, eight months, and twelve days behind everyone else, because sometimes you just can’t get the timing right, no matter how hard you try. But they’re catching up now, because Lou turns and Debbie’s got something in her hand, something small she’s turning over and over in her fingers _nervously_ and that catches the little light out here on the balcony overlooking New York City far off in the distance there and there’s a glint enough for Lou to know it’s real, and Lou only knows she hopes the roughness to her voice is passed off as because of the smoke.

 

“Thought you’d never ask, honey.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

The money trickles steadily into their accounts, as profit from stocks that don’t exist or sales that never really happened or relatives they’ve never met bequeathing them inheritances, and almost a year later to the date she’s in the kitchen adding the finishing touches to her parmesan risotto with roasted shrimp, everyone coming over in little more than thirty minutes.

 

Debbie’s arms slip around her waist, her chin on her shoulder, and Lou warns before anything can happen, “No funny business. My risotto will burn.”

 

“I’m being _good_ ,” Debbie says, sounding affronted but only jokingly, and Lou smiles knowingly, picks up a dishtowel and uses it to grasp the knob of the yellow Le Creuset pot and tilts the lid up to check on tenderness of the risotto.

 

“For now,” Lou replies, and Debbie makes an amused noise, knows she’s been caught and slips away to get ready.

 

She gets caught up in brushing oil and a mixture of herbs over the shrimp, popping them in the oven, and checking her timer—she intends to open the door for their guests but someone picks the lock which is hardly surprising and there is the sound of others trooping in, and she takes off her apron, straightens her Hermes scarf, and turns around to find Debbie directing the flow of people.

 

They sit together at the table because they’ve come out a long time ago, no one making any comment about how Lou’s arm is around Debbie’s shoulder or Debbie shows off her ring to Rose, who’s been out of the country for several months. It’s over dessert and wine and decaf coffee for Tammy, though, most of them moved to the more comfortable couches in the center of the room, that Debbie tilts her head against hers, which she should of course find suspicious because of her earlier denial.

 

“Bend me over and take me,” Debbie whispers, lips brushing against her ear like she’s telling Lou any other normal thing in a normal setting, and the dress Debbie wears has a plunging neckline and her voice is low and teasing and if she were a lesser woman Lou’s sure she’d groan then and there. She manages to stay still and turn that into a clearing of her throat though, keep her cool as heat flushes through her

 

Debbie’s hand settles on her knee as she turns away and smiles and listens to the story Nine Ball is telling them about something, and the frustration only ends later, when it’s dark outside and everyone leaves, full and tipsy and happy, when she starts to wash dishes and Debbie joins her, herself washing and Debbie drying because they’re the nice kind of dishes she refuses to put through the heat of the dishwasher.

 

“Gonna change the record,” Lou says, wipes her hand on a dishtowel, and she excuses herself. She’s played various vinyls all night, a low background to their get together. But she goes to their room instead, looks in their drawer, slips things off and then back on, comes back down and finds Debbie washing.

 

It was a terrible, bold-faced lie but one they both play into because the record player is _right there_ , and she slips arms around Debbie’s waist, presses close, hears Debbie feel it because Debbie sigh and relax against her.

 

There are dishes yet to be washed and the table to be wiped clean and too many lights on for it to be very sexy in any other situation, but that an all be taken care of later, whenever that happens to be, because right now Debbie’s on her tiptoes, tummy against the marble countertop and her hair slipping over her shoulder, dark, and Lou leans back, weight on her heels just enough to watch, panties to the side and a hand on Debbie’s hips and the other on the strap. They’ve known each other, in one way or another, long enough for fumbling to be a thing of the past. Tonight is for Lou to drag a finger through Debbie, to slick it over the head of the strap, to push just the little bit and stop to make up for earlier.

 

Whenever they play Just The Tip, Debbie always loses wonderfully.

 

 _Don’t tease_ , she almost expects to be told like Debbie usually does, but she can read Debbie as well as Debbie can read her and Debbie’s asked for this and so can’t complain, not tonight, and Debbie only presses her forehead against the counter and groans, hands finding no purchase and clutching at nothing.

 

“You take it so well, baby girl,” Lou says, knows what those two words do to Debbie accompanied by the slow, gentle push of her hips, and Lou swallows at the sight of the strap sinking into Debbie’s cunt, of Debbie arching against the counter and making a noise like she’s been waiting all night for this.

 

(“You like that?” Debbie asks— _you like watching, you like watching me on your strap, you like watching yourself fuck me_ —sinking onto the toy until she’s bottomed out and flush against her hips, eyes watching her but lips parted just a shade now, too preoccupied for flirtatious commentary, and Lou swallows a guttural noise, pulls Debbie’s hips to her and lets Debbie give her the show she promised.)

 

She guesses and tries, the touch of just her index finger against the small of Debbie’s back has Debbie pressing herself against the marble, and Lou lets her hand slide up, follow the line of Debbie’s dress that they’ll unzip later, suggesting, until Debbie’s flat against the countertop and Lou’s fingers dip and reach just a little bit higher, carding in loose curls.

 

“Alright?” Lou asks, doesn’t pull but only directs with Debbie’s consent, until Debbie’s arching up, moan slipping past her lips.

 

“Yeah,” is all she gets, eager and breathless, and so Lou goes with that, whispers sweet nothings— _you’re so tight_ and _I’ve been looking forward to fucking you all night_ and _just like that baby_ —as she fucks Debbie up against the counter, one hand on her hip and the other fisted in her hair, until Debbie shudders and gasps through her orgasm and Lou catches her like she always does.

 

The marble can’t be warm but they rest there because Debbie holds her to her, Lou pressing kisses to the back of Debbie’s shoulder not covered by her dress, and later, after the counter again and the raised stage and the hallway, they end up in bed like they always do, make-up and suits and ties and dresses and heels gone.

 

It’s late for Debbie and early for her, but it’s a sacrifice Lou’s more than willing to make, particularly when Debbie kisses her goodnight, a hand on the curve of her jaw, in panties and a graphic tee she’s stolen out of her side of the closet.  

 

“I’ve got two hours for lunch tomorrow,” Debbie says, and Lou plays with the end of a curl as Debbie pauses, continues. “Client fell through. Want to stop by?”

 

It’s certainly a sentence she’d never imagine Deborah Ocean saying, but maybe that’s a good thing, Lou thinks, not like before, not like five years eight month and twelve days, and Lou agrees— _noon tomorrow_ and _I know a new place Amita suggested_ —lets Debbie turn out the lights and slips her arm over her stomach like she always does and pulls Debbie close with a satisfied smile because all in all it's worked out quite well, actually.

 

Lou settles her hand over Debbie's, fingers playing with Debbie's ring and Debbie murmuring good-naturedly at her to let her sleep even though Debbie threads their fingers together in response, and Lou finds it's easy to close her eyes and fall asleep because she’s got thirty-eight million in the bank, more or less, a few good years left, and one woman to spend it all with.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
